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by PoemAboutCitylights



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Angry Rafa, Comfort, Fluff, M/M, US Open
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-22 22:17:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11976165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoemAboutCitylights/pseuds/PoemAboutCitylights
Summary: It had not happened often.In fact, Roger could count the times it has on one hand but when he came back to their shared hotel room that night, he could sense immediately that something was not quite right.OR: the one where Rafa is disappointed in himself and Roger picks up the pieces.





	Home

It had not happened often.  
In fact, Roger could count the times it has on one hand but when he came back to their shared hotel room that night, he could sense immediately that something was not quite right.  
It was not unusual per se, that Rafa was apparently still awake but for a Grand Slam, it definitely was.  
He had expected to find the Spaniard snuggled into their sheets, an arm and a foot hanging off the edge of their bed as they always did, while puffs of air were coming from the Majorcan that were “of course no snoring, sí!”.

But tonight, the lamps on the nightstands were still switched on and illuminated the room in a warm tone. Panorama windows allowed a breath-taking view over New York’s streets at night, traffic and city lights proving that big apple, in fact, never slept.  
However, Roger could not care less about the sight when he closed the door behind him and all but exhaustedly dropped his tennis bag that moment. He could sense it in the air the second he took in the first breath, could feel all the emotions tingling his skin when he made a step into the room. Rafa’s frame was not more than a shadow slumped in one of the leathery armchairs by the windows.  
His back was facing Roger so the Spaniard was staring down the street, only the tension in his shoulders giving away that he had heard the Swiss coming in.  
Roger suppressed a sigh and came closer with big steps.  
When he was standing right behind Rafa, his chest almost touching his dark locks, he could see their reflections in the windowpane.  
He could see the tiredness of five sets in his eyes, the adrenaline of having won still flooding his veins and holding him upright.  
Yet, he could also see the exhaustion that would probably never wash away again, despite hours of regeneration or physio sessions. His age stuck to him, made his skin crinkle and his body ache, made it harder and harder to play a night session like today instead of sticking to his sleeping schedule.  
But somehow, all that did not seem to matter when he was with Rafa. In fact, he even liked it. Liked to see how the crinkles around their eyes became a little deeper because so did their relationship. Their age and the fact that he was privileged to grow old with Rafa was more than he could have ever dreamed of.  
It wasn’t like he didn’t miss those days 10 or even 15 years ago when he could play a 5 set match every day without even having to think about his physical fitness but then again, he had lacked of experience back then and he would not trade that for the world.  
Rafa’s reflection could be seen in the windowpane as well, his dark brows brought together in a deep frown, his eyes narrowed and his bottom lip drawn in, as always when the Spaniard was angry.  
It happened so rarely that worry was taking over Roger’s mind now.  
He placed his hands on the Spaniard’s shoulders, gently trying to massage away the tension in Rafa’s muscles.  
“You win?” the Majorcan eventually asked and Roger could basically hear the lump in his throat and the weight of his tongue.  
The Swiss squeezed his boyfriend’s shoulders affirmatively and placed a soft kiss against Rafa’s hair.  
“You didn’t watch it?” he whispered and faked dismay.  
But Rafa did not let out a snort or shrugged his shoulders provoking. He also didn’t reply with a joke or with something in Spanish that probably meant “idiot”, as Roger would have expected.  
Instead, the Spaniard turned around with the whole armchair in a rapid movement, Rafa’s feet almost knocking him down.  
Now he could see that the Majorcan was still wearing tennis gear, only his feet were bare.  
Rafa had his arms crossed in front of his chest while his brown eyes had even seemed to have grown some shades darker.  
“Wait,” Roger said and frowned, “you did win your match against Daniel, right?”  
Rafa’s face remained angry and for a second, Roger already expected the worst.  
“Rafa?”  
“Sí, I win,” the Spaniard eventually replied, biting his bottom lip.  
“Then what happened? Is everyone OK?”  
Now was the time for Rafa to let out a snort and his eyes seemed to become even dark, iris and pupils almost inseparable.  
“Yes, everyone OK. ‘Specially who play me in next round, no?”  
The penny still had not dropped for Roger and the way he was looking down on the Spaniard made him feel uncomfortable, so he drew near the other armchair and sat down right in front of Rafa.  
“Will you tell me why you’re still up burning holes into our nice window with your eyes and not sleeping like a baby to catch some rest for the next rounds?”  
Rafa seemed to think for a moment, until, “I not want to talk.”  
His accent was much stronger than usual, another indicator that something clearly was not right with the Majorcan.  
“Come on, Rafa,” Roger said and reached out to take one of his tanned hands in his. For a second, he was afraid that the other man would shrug him of but when the Spaniard did not show any reaction at all, Roger took that as the permission to intertwine their fingers slowly.  
The anger on Rafa’s face wasn’t an unusual look; Roger had seen it many, countless, times before when he had watched the matches of the tennis number one.  
But normally, that look was gone the second Rafa’s match point was settled, his gorgeous grin and a “Vamos!” taking over.  
“Come on,” the Swiss tried again, “tell me about it. You’ll feel better afterwards, I promise.”  
He could basically see the battle going on behind his boyfriend’s beautiful eyes and he knew the exact moment Rafa’s shoulders sunk in defeat.  
“I play horrible today, Roger,” Rafa whispered and lowered his gaze.  
_Now,_ the penny dropped and the Swiss could not hold back a sympathetic sigh, “You won the match, Rafa.”  
The Spaniard’s gaze shot up at that, eyeing Roger suspiciously.  
“Was still horrible, no? Embarrassing.”  
“Rafa!” Roger shook his head in disbelief and tightened his grip on the other player’s hand, “no one expects you to play at a top level the whole time. And those who do are just stupid. What matters in the end is that you won the match.”  
Rafa shook his head, “No one wins Grand Slam like this.”  
“You are not that match, Rafa. You’re so much more and you know that. I struggled a lot today, too.”  
“Sí, but you are Roger Federer, no? You fight and you win.”  
“Are you kidding me? You are fucking Rafael Nadal, the world’s number one, and you’re sitting here, punishing yourself for a match you _won_?”  
When Roger looked up at Rafa, there was an almost embarrassed look ghosting over his face and the frown still had not left his lineaments.  
Roger’s heart almost burst at the sight.  
Rafa was a walking contradiction, with his wide smile and glowing eyes that made him seem so _young_ , so _vulnerable_. And then his physical appearance, his tall figure and broad shoulders, the muscles of his upper arm that some would kill for and the strength of his whole body.  
The softness of his voice and the gentleness of his words on one side, his determination and furious glances during a match on the other.  
The delicate sounds that dropped from his lips when Roger went down on him and his screams that could fill the whole centre court.  
“Rafa…” the way he said his name made the Spaniard catch his gaze and for a few seconds, they just looked at each other.  
“I understand that you’re far from happy with your match today, I really do. Those moments suck but you know why you’re that angry?”  
Rafa shook his head and blew a strand of hair out of his face.  
Roger came a little closer and bumped their knees together, “Because you know that you can do so much better. You know that what you did today is not what you are capable of. If you had played your best tennis and would have struggled still, then you would be devastated.”  
Roger leaned forward and placed a soft kiss against the corner of Rafa’s mouth.  
“But you’re angry. Which means that you can do better. Will do better.”  
“You not know…” Rafa replied and the doubt was not to be overheard.  
“I know, trust me.”  
He could feel Rafa leaning into him, the tiredness now also tricking his younger body into seeking comfort of his boyfriend.  
Roger sneaked a hand into the Spaniard’s locks and gently caressed his skin.  
“And after you lose against me in the semi-finals, I will take you to see me family.”  
Rafa shivered immediately and Roger suppressed a laugh by kissing the Majorcan’s neck.  
“I not like your home in fall. Is too cold and rainy. We go to Manacor, no? Enjoying the sun and no rain.”  
Roger chuckled and shook his head, “No, it’s not going to be that easy. Let’s make a bet: The winner is allowed to take the loser home with him. No bickering about the weather.”  
Rafa stared at him for a seconds but then he extended a hand, “Is good motivation, no?”  
Roger grinned and nodded, not giving away yet that he hadn’t thought of Switzerland for a while now when someone had asked him if he would spend some time at home.  
  
It was rather a 6’1’’ being with dark locks and a steady breathing (and the way the Majorcan sun seemed to release tons of endorphines in its body all at once).  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this!  
> Please tell me what you think in the comments :)


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